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Shane had always prided himself on control. On the ice, he dictated pace, read plays three steps ahead, kept his emotions locked tight behind a captain’s mask. Off it, he did the same: disciplined routines, measured responses, no cracks in the armor. But Ilya Rozanov existed solely to shatter every layer of that control, and tonight—off-season, no cameras, no teammates, just the two of them in Shane’s high-rise Montreal condo—Ilya was going to take his time doing it.
Ilya arrived just after midnight. No knock, just the buzz from the lobby, then the soft click of the door opening with the spare key Shane had stupidly given him months ago. Shane was waiting in the living room, barefoot, wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a black tank top already clinging to the sweat from an earlier workout. The city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting long silver stripes across the hardwood.
Ilya didn’t speak at first. He simply dropped his leather jacket on the entry bench, kicked off his boots, and crossed the room in three long strides. When he reached Shane he didn’t kiss him—he just cupped the back of Shane’s neck with one big hand and tilted his head up so their eyes locked.
“You’re already hard,” Ilya said, voice low and amused, thumb brushing the pulse hammering under Shane’s jaw.
Shane swallowed. “You’re late.”
“Hm. Made you wait on purpose.” Ilya’s other hand slid down, palming Shane through the sweatpants, slow and deliberate. “Wanted you thinking about it. Wanting it.”
Shane’s hips jerked forward into the touch before he could stop himself. A soft, involuntary sound slipped out—half sigh, half whine. Ilya’s grin sharpened.
“Bedroom. Now.”
They didn’t make it far before clothes started coming off. Shane’s tank top hit the hallway floor. Sweatpants followed just inside the bedroom doorway. By the time Shane was naked, Ilya was still fully dressed: dark jeans, black henley, socks. The contrast made Shane’s skin prickle—his own vulnerability against Ilya’s casual control.
Ilya sat against the headboard, legs spread wide, denim stretched tight over thick thighs. He patted the space between them.
“Sit. Back to my chest.”
Shane obeyed, pulse roaring in his ears. He settled between Ilya’s legs, bare ass pressing against rough denim, spine aligning with the solid wall of Ilya’s torso. Immediately he felt the hard line of Ilya’s erection digging into his lower back through the jeans. Ilya’s arms came around him—one banding across Shane’s stomach, the other trailing lazily down the inside of his thigh, stopping just short of where Shane was aching.
“Legs wider,” Ilya murmured against his ear.
Shane spread them, knees falling open, feet planted on the mattress. The position left him completely exposed: cock flushed and leaking against his stomach, hole twitching under the cool air, back arched slightly just from the way Ilya was holding him.
Ilya reached to the nightstand without letting go. The drawer opened. Lube bottle clicked open. Then the unmistakable weight of silicone—the nine-inch dildo Shane kept hidden there, thick, veined, curved, embarrassingly close in size and shape to the cock currently pressing against his spine.
Ilya slicked it slowly, letting Shane hear every wet slide of his fist. “You use this when I’m not here?”
Shane’s face burned. “Sometimes.”
“Bet you think about me the whole time.” Ilya pressed the blunt head against Shane’s rim, not pushing in yet, just rubbing in slow circles. “Bet you moan my name, da?”
“Shut up,” Shane breathed, but there was no heat in it.
Ilya chuckled, low and dark. Then he pushed.
The first inch burned sweetly—enough stretch to make Shane gasp, enough pressure to make his toes curl. Ilya didn’t rush. He worked the toy in gradually, twisting his wrist on every forward motion so the ridges dragged deliciously against Shane’s walls. By the time it was halfway in, Shane was already whining—soft, high, needy sounds he couldn’t swallow back.
“Fuck,” he hissed, head dropping back onto Ilya’s shoulder.
“Good?” Ilya asked, voice deceptively gentle.
Shane nodded frantically. “Uh-huh.” He panted. “More.”
Ilya bottomed out with one smooth push. The base kissed Shane’s rim; the curved head pressed right up against his prostate without even trying. Shane’s whole body jerked, a startled moan ripping out of him.
Ilya held still for a long moment, letting Shane feel every thick inch. Then he started to move.
Not fast. Not yet.
Just a steady, rolling rhythm—pulling out halfway, sliding back in, letting the toy drag over every sensitive spot on the way. The lube made it slick and filthy; every thrust produced a wet, squelching sound that echoed in the quiet room. Shane’s hips rocked in tiny helpless circles, trying to take it deeper, trying to get more.
He was loud from the beginning—whimpers turning into moans, moans turning into broken little cries. His back arched off Ilya’s chest as much as the hold around his waist would allow, spine curving, head tipping back so far his throat was exposed. Ilya took advantage, mouthing at the side of his neck, teeth grazing and biting softly.
“Pretty,” Ilya muttered, voice rough. “Needy, aren’t you?”
Shane tried to answer—something sharp, something to regain some dignity—but another thrust dragged the toy over his prostate and all that came out was a long, trembling moan.
Ilya’s cock throbbed hard against Shane’s lower back. “Jesus, Hollander..” He sped up slightly, still controlled, still deliberate, but deeper now. The squelch grew louder, wetter. Lube and pre-cum leaked from Shane’s hole, dripping down the toy, coating Ilya’s fingers, smearing onto the denim below.
Shane’s thighs started trembling. Not just a little shake—full-body quivers that started in his inner thighs and spread outward. His toes curled against the sheets. His hands scrabbled at Ilya’s forearms, nails digging in.
“Too much?” Ilya asked, though he didn’t slow down.
“No—don’t stop—please.”
Ilya didn’t.
He changed the angle.
Just a subtle shift of his wrist—tilting the dildo upward so the curved head kissed Shane’s prostate dead-on with every thrust.
The effect was immediate.
Shane’s back bowed violently. A high, girlish squeak bursted out of him—cute, almost shocked, the kind of sound he’d deny making forever. Then his mouth fell open in a silent scream. No noise at all for several long heartbeats. Just the obscene, wet squelch-squelch-squelch of the toy plunging in and out, lube foaming at the base, cream gathering in sticky white rings around his stretched rim.
His inner thighs shook harder—violent, uncontrollable tremors. His whole lower body vibrated. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it.
Then the air rushed back into his lungs.
A broken, keening whine tore out of him, followed by another, and another—loud, desperate, shameless. He thrashed weakly in Ilya’s hold, not trying to get away, just overwhelmed, body short-circuiting from pleasure.
Ilya was losing it.
His breathing was ragged against Shane’s ear. His hips rocked up in tiny, helpless jerks, grinding his trapped cock against Shane’s back through the denim. Pre-cum had soaked through the front of his jeans; Shane could feel the wet heat of it.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned. “I can come just like this..”
He moved it faster.
Not brutal, but relentless. The toy pistoned in and out, hitting that spot on every stroke. The squelching turned filthy—loud, sloppy, unmistakable. Cream dripped down Shane’s perineum, pooled on the sheets. Shane’s cock bounced against his stomach with every thrust, untouched, leaking steadily.
Shane’s moans turned into sobs—high, wrecked, pleading. “Ilya—Ilya—can’t—gonna—”
“Come,” Ilya ordered, voice hoarse. “Be a good boy, let me feel it.”
Shane shattered.
His back arched one last time, spine curving so sharply it almost hurt. A raw, broken cry ripped out of him as he came—hard, untouched, ropes of cum splattering his chest, his stomach, even catching the underside of his chin. His hole clenched rhythmically around the toy, milking it, pulling it deeper. His thighs shook so violently Ilya had to tighten his arm to keep him from bucking off.
Ilya didn’t stop moving the dildo.
He fucked Shane through it—slow, deep rolls now, drawing out every aftershock, making Shane whimper and twitch with overstimulation. Tears streamed freely down Shane’s face. His mouth hung open, drool slipping from the corner, completely gone.
Only when Shane’s cries turned soft and broken did Ilya finally ease the toy out. The wet pop was obscene. Shane’s hole gaped for a moment, pink and slick, before fluttering closed.
Ilya shifted them both—laying Shane flat on his back, spreading his trembling thighs wide. He stripped quickly, jeans and henley hitting the floor, cock springing free—thick, flushed, leaking. He didn’t enter yet.
Instead he dropped between Shane’s legs and licked a broad stripe from hole to balls, tasting the mess they’d made.
Shane keened, hands flying to Ilya’s hair, trying to pull him away because it was too much, too sensitive—
Ilya growled, pinning Shane’s hips down. “Stay.”
He ate him out with ruthless focus—tongue circling the rim, dipping inside, sucking gently on the swollen ring of muscle. Shane sobbed openly now, body jerking with every pass of Ilya’s tongue. It took almost no time at all for another orgasm to build—smaller, sharper, almost painful. When it hit, Shane arched softly off the bed with a strangled cry, spilling weakly onto his own stomach.
Only then did Ilya crawl up his body, line himself up, and push inside in one long, slow thrust.
Shane was so wet, so open, so sensitive that the stretch felt like fire and heaven at once. He wrapped shaking legs around Ilya’s waist, nails raking down his back, babbling nonsense—please, more, too much, don’t stop, Ilya!
Ilya fucked him deep and hard, chasing his own release now, hips snapping with purpose. The bed creaked under them. The headboard thumped the wall. Shane’s voice gave out somewhere in the middle—reduced to hoarse groans and pitiful whimpers as he could do nothing but take it.
When Ilya came, it was with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside. Shane felt every hot spurt, felt the way Ilya’s cock throbbed against his oversensitive walls, and it dragged one final, dry, shuddering orgasm out of him.
They collapsed together, sweaty and wrecked.
Ilya stayed inside for a long minute, breathing hard against Shane’s neck. Then he pulled out gently, kissed Shane’s tear-streaked cheek, and murmured something soft in his mother’s tongue—too quiet to make out, but the tone was unmistakable.
Shane didn’t have the energy to pretend he hadn’t heard the tenderness in it.
He just turned his face into Ilya’s throat and let himself be held.
They stayed like that for long minutes—limbs tangled, chests rising and falling in slowing sync. The room smelled of sex and sweat and lube, but underneath it was the faint cedar of Ilya’s cologne and the clean linen of Shane’s sheets. The city hummed faintly beyond the windows, indifferent.
Ilya moved first.
He eased Shane off his chest with careful hands, murmuring, “Stay,” when Shane made a small, protesting sound. Then he rolled out of bed, naked and unselfconscious, muscles shifting under sweat-slick skin. Shane watched through heavy lids as Ilya disappeared into the ensuite, heard the tap run, the soft clink of glass.
He came back with a damp washcloth and a bottle of water—Shane’s fancy filtered kind from the fridge. Ilya knelt on the edge of the mattress, expression softer than it ever was on the ice or in public.
“Drink,” he said, pressing the bottle into Shane’s lax hand.
Shane’s fingers shook a little as he took it. He managed a few swallows, cool water sliding down his raw throat. Ilya watched, patient, then took the bottle back and set it on the nightstand.
The washcloth was warm. Ilya dragged it gently over Shane’s chest first—wiping away the cooling streaks of cum, careful around sensitive nipples that still twitched at the lightest touch. Then lower, over his stomach, the sticky mess there. Shane hissed softly when the cloth brushed his spent cock; Ilya slowed, murmuring apologies in a low rumble.
“Too much?”
Shane shook his head. “Just… sensitive.”
Ilya hummed acknowledgment. He moved to Shane’s thighs, parting them gently to clean between them—careful around the swollen, tender rim, the lingering slickness. No teasing now, just quiet efficiency and care. When he was done, he tossed the cloth toward the bathroom and reached for the small tube of unscented lotion Shane kept for post-workout aches. He warmed some between his palms and massaged it into the red marks on Shane’s inner thighs where his own grip had pressed hardest, then up over the faint finger-bruises on his hips.
Shane let out a long, shaky breath. The simple touch grounded him more than anything else tonight.
Ilya stretched out beside him, pulling the duvet up over both their bodies. He tugged Shane close until Shane’s head rested on his chest again, ear over Ilya’s steady heartbeat. One big hand carded slowly through Shane’s damp hair; the other settled low on his back, thumb tracing lazy circles over his spine.
“It’s okay?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane swallowed. His voice came out hoarse, small. “Yeah… s’good.”
Ilya pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “Я тебя держу.” I’ve got you.
They lay in silence for a while. Shane’s body still trembled faintly now and then—aftershocks—but each one was smaller, softer. Ilya kept up the slow petting, never stopping, never rushing him back to reality.
After a bit, Ilya reached over to the nightstand again. This time he came back with a small packet of chocolate—dark, the good kind Shane kept stashed for late-night cravings. He tore it open and broke off a piece, holding it to Shane’s lips.
“Eat.”
Shane opened his mouth obediently. The sweetness bloomed on his tongue, cutting through the lingering salt and exhaustion. He chewed slowly, then took another piece when Ilya offered.
“Better?” Ilya asked.
Shane nodded against his chest. “Mhm.”
Ilya ate a piece himself, then set the rest aside. He pulled Shane even closer, wrapping both arms around him now, one hand cradling the back of his neck like he had earlier—but gentle, protective.
“You were perfect,” Ilya said, voice low and rough with something unguarded. “Did so good for me.”
Shane’s throat tightened. He buried his face deeper into Ilya’s neck, breathing him in. “You too.”
They didn’t say much more. Words felt too big, too clumsy for what was still humming between them. Instead Ilya kept holding him—solid, warm, unmovable—until Shane’s breathing evened out and the trembling stopped entirely.
Ilya stayed awake longer, listening to the quiet rhythm of Shane’s sleep, thumb still tracing slow patterns on his back. He pressed one last kiss to Shane’s temple, murmured something soft and private in Russian again, then finally let his own eyes close.
The city lights kept shining outside. Inside, for once, everything was still.